


Three Times Someone Told Sherlock Holmes to Not Die (and One Time They Were Nearly Too Late)

by consulting_teabag



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Injury, Major Character Injury, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_teabag/pseuds/consulting_teabag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have been four times in Sherlock's life thus far when someone has had to tell him not to die, meaning that there has been four times when Sherlock has nearly died. Obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Sherlock’s knees were muddy, and his curly hair tangled, as he hacked his way through his mother’s prized rose bush with a bamboo cane. A few feet behind him, his reluctant older brother trailed, wincing as the little boy carelessly decapitated a beautiful rose head and trampled it beneath his feet. Mycroft had learnt by now not to scold his sibling, because he would only be ignored. Right by Sherlock’s side, a young puppy (known as Rusty to everyone else but Sherlock, who insisted he was called Redbeard) pranced, his copper fur seemingly a vibrant red in the summer sun.

“Avast!” Sherlock cried, pulling himself out of the bush and marching onto soft grass, “Land ho!” Redbeard’s tail wagged with delight, his tongue dangling lopsidedly from his pink mouth, and he sat at his master’s feet. Mycroft sighed,  
“Land ho,” He intoned without much enthusiasm. If he had been a few years younger, Mycroft could have been enjoying this as much as Sherlock, but alas, time had taken its toll on the 12 year-old, who considered himself above this nonsense. Sherlock, it seemed, hadn’t heard his brother’s moody drawl, and rummaged around in his trouser pocket before pulling out a battered brass compass. The compass had been a gift from their grandmother a few Christmas’ ago, and the Holmes never went anywhere without it; Mycroft could have sworn he had even seen his brother taking it to school with him.

Sherlock popped it open and watched the red needle as it spun and trembled in his palm, before, after a few moments of complete, focused stillness, it rested pointing in the direction of the toweringly tall oak tree tucked deep into the furthest corner of the large garden. Its roots were gnarled, and its bark rough and twisted. Mother Holmes would always tell her children that the mighty tree was hundreds of years old, and had seen many things.

Mycroft felt a rush of unease pass through him; he didn’t trust the tree, something felt rotten about it. On stormy nights, it was always feared that it would keel over and squash the vegetable patch. Luckily, however, there was not even a light breeze that day. The younger brother’s eyes lit up, “So, that’s where my treasure is buried.” He spoke down to his canine companion, who gazed back at him almost as though he actually understood what was happening. 

“Brother,” Mycroft began with a sigh, “That tree is dead, and the darkened bark is evidence of disease and decay. It would be very unwise to climb it.” The older brother folded his arms across his tummy and cocked an eyebrow at his brother, adopting his I’m-older-therefore-you-should-listen-to-me stance.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, when would his brother learn that he was just the lowly swabbie and could not address him, the captain, in such a way?

“Shut up, ye swab.” The little boy huffed, before straightening up, putting his compass away and marching over in the direction of the oak, Redbeard scampering after him. Again, a ripple of discomfort passed over Mycroft, making the auburn hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He watched as Sherlock made his way up the trunk and walked in a circle around it, trying to spot the best place to start climbing from.  
“Brother,” Mycroft iterated, padding over, “If you climb that, fall and then die horribly – I told you so.” He spoke down to his ruffian younger sibling with a hint of disdain in his voice. Sherlock, of course, ignored him utterly and wedged the end of his shoe into a little crevice, and managed to dig his nails into the slimy bark.

“I need to get my treasure!” He grunted determinedly as he pulled himself off the ground, his long limbs acting as an advantage as he picked his precarious way up to the first big branch. Mycroft stood back with another weary sigh; if their mother were here now she’d have a coronary. He watched from a small distance as his little brother tackled each branch, although the distance between each one was gradually increasing. Mycroft doubted he’d make it further than the fourth.

Below, Redbeard was getting impatient, pawing at the wood and whining. But was it impatience? Or was it instead concern for his captain? The terrier’s tail wagged slowly back and forth, and his beady eyes focused upon the ascending figure that was Sherlock.

“That’s high enough, now, brother.” Mycroft called half-heartedly, now that his little sibling was attempting to reach the sixth branch, which was a good eight feet in the air. A long way for such a small human being, Mycroft thought to himself. Sherlock was actually quite athletic, (though at that age, PE consisted of nothing more than a few star jumps and a game of traffic lights), but Mycroft could see that even with all his flexibility, he wasn’t going to make it to his destination unless he jumped.  
There was a flicker of movement, and Mycroft noticed how Sherlock buckled his knees a fraction; as though he were actually going to jump. “Don’t be such a fool, Sherlock, you’ll never make it.” Mycroft called, making the little boy falter. 

Sherlock glared downwards at his brother, “Silence, swabbie, or I’ll make you walk the plank.” He snapped from above, before shuffling his feet to reaffirm his stance. Mycroft bit back a retort to tell his brother that in actual fact pirates never made people walk the plank, and that it was just a childish myth, but he restrained himself. He supposed there was a limit to the dreams he could crumble before Sherlock got too old for them in his own time. In the background, Redbeard whined miserably. 

Huffing, Mycroft glanced at the ground for a split-second, before a blood-chilling crack overwhelmed his senses and he looked up just in time to see his brother toppling from the tree, taking a piece of it down with him. Sherlock didn’t even gasp with surprise, but Mycroft caught a glimpse of his eyes widening with horror before he hit the ground.  
“Brother!” Mycroft couldn’t help but cry out, suddenly scared. He dropped to his knees beside Sherlock, who was completely motionless, and turned him onto his back. There was no blood, but Mycroft’s hands were trembling anyway. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” He whispered urgently, as shouting would only alert their parents, and Mycroft couldn’t risk that – they would only shout at him for letting his brother climb a tree he knew to be dangerous. 

“Don’t die.” 

Mycroft heard himself demand, even though it was silly; of course his brother wasn’t going to die. “Don’t you dare die.” His heart was beating inside his chest at what felt like 100 miles an hour, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He placed two fingers underneath Sherlock’s jaw, feeling for a pulse in the same way his father had taught him to. For a few frantic moments he could find nothing. Then, at last, he could feel a throbbing beneath his fingertips. Mycroft breathed a great sigh of relief, quelling his own rapid heartbeat. He had been so frightened. On reflection, with his brother in his arms, he decided that feeling frightened was awful and that he wasn’t going to do it again in a hurry. It was only eight feet, he estimated, men had fallen further and lived to see another day. But Sherlock, he reasoned with himself, wasn’t a man yet, and was just a young boy who had barely left the nursery. 

Redbeard sat down beside his master as Sherlock began to stir slowly, watching his captain’s face crumple as it dawned on him what had happened to him.  
“Myc?” The boy asked quietly, wincing as though each syllable was a pain to get out, “My head hurts.” Mycroft rolled his eyes,  
“Of course it will, stupid,” He replied, “You fell roughly eight feet and landed on your face. You’re lucky not to have got a nasal fracture.” As he said this, Sherlock wrinkled his nose, as though testing to see if his nose was in fact broken. Satisfied that it wasn’t, he rubbed away the tiny tears in his eyes, and untangled himself from his older sibling.

“Go away, Myc,” He sniffled, clasping Redbeard in his arms instead, and running his fingers through the hound’s russet fur, like it helped to alleviate the pain. Mycroft crossed his legs, looking down at the grass he was subconsciously fiddling with, ripping it from the ground and tossing it away.

“Let’s go back inside. You can look for your treasure another day, I’m sure.” He offered after a few minutes, the lack of an ‘I told you so’ was his own way of apologising. And Sherlock, despite his youth, recognised this, and nodded his head.  
“Uh-huh.” He murmured, standing up and rubbing his head, his knees shaking ever so slightly. Mycroft could tell that he would still be shaky for a little while, and, looking up the long garden, he supposed he had better help out.

“Piggy-back.” He said, not even posing it as a question, as he stood in front of his brother with his hands on his hips, and braced. Sherlock, suddenly spurred by the offering, jumped eagerly upwards and wriggled into place on the small of his brother’s back. “Just this once, mind.” Mycroft said as he pushed Sherlock up a little before setting off towards the back garden door, Redbeard yapping at his side.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sherlock is 22, and Victor is 26.

“Jesus, Victor!” Sherlock’s jaw dropped at the sight of his boyfriend slouched across a sleek, ebony Harley, holding a helmet in each hand, and wearing a smirk. He stepped onto the pavement, glancing from Victor to the bike and back again.  
“Impressed?” The other asked smugly, of course Sherlock was impressed. The brunet scratched the back of his neck,  
“Yes. Very. Where on Earth did you find such a beast?” He asked, padding up closer to inspect the bike, scanning over the glistening, highly-polished paint job and the engine. Victor patted the side of his nose with a finger,  
“I have my sources.” He replied enigmatically, and Sherlock couldn’t help but snort and roll his eyes;  
“You’re so very over-dramatic, darling.” He informed Victor as he straightened up and took the helmet that was offered to him with a smile, 

“You’re hardly a subtle character, Sherlock.” Victor replied with a cocked brow, “But, anyway, want to take her out on her maiden voyage?”  
Sherlock laughed, oh God, if Mycroft knew what he was doing he would surely throw a tantrum. His entire family had been against Victor Trevor ever since he had rolled up at their house dressed in leathers, with his buzz cut hair and tattoos, not to mention he smelt faintly of weed.  
But he had been the kind of person Sherlock had been looking for, the man had the lifestyle he so longed to lead – crazy, rebellious, like he had no rules and no compass. It was a stark change to the one his family had in mind, especially his brother (who had had Oxbridge squabbling like five-year olds over him). 

“God, yes.” Was his breathy response as he, without a moment’s hesitation, pulled the helmet over his mop of curls and buckled up the strap that rested underneath his chin. He knew he wasn’t wearing the right stuff for biking, a stringy old white t-shirt and a pair of black jeans, but who cared when Victor was also the finest bike rider in England?  
“Climb aboard,” Victor, who had already fastened his helmet on, drawled as he swung his leg around the seat and secured himself deep into the saddle of the bike, stretching out to clutch the handles. Sherlock snorted, and there was a ridiculous grin on his face as he hopped onto the back. He hugged his long arms around Victor’s slim waist, feeling the tension in his abdominal muscles beneath the leather jacket that had always seemed a size too small. 

“Get a move on, babe,” He growled into Victor’s back, as his boyfriend kicked away the support and they rolled onto the street. Sherlock relished watching the heads of strangers turn faster than lightening as their mindless chatter was engulfed by the roar of the machine he and his boyfriend were breaking in.  
He heard Victor mumble something in response, but it was lost as air barrelled past them, and Sherlock could only wonder what he had said. His fingertips whitened as he pressed them into the leather of Victor’s jacket for extra security, the leather was such a good make – it was irresistible to the touch. There was jump of adrenalin in his blood stream, it felt like a single spark of electricity, but it was igniting his senses.

He looked over his boyfriend’s shoulder, his vision almost blurring as the buildings and vehicles on either side of them became a smudge of motion, and tarmac beneath them was devoured at a dizzying rate. Effortlessly, his boyfriend jumped a red light, and Sherlock laughed as the disgruntled drivers practically throttled their horns as though that would dissuade the two.

“Watch out for speed cameras, darling.” Sherlock felt as though he was obliged to point it out as they came to a halt at the eternal gridlock of The Strand, but Victor merely laughed and shrugged,  
“What can I say?” He asked, “The cameras love me!” The older man put his booted foot on the road and rolled his shoulders stiffly. Sherlock grinned; his boyfriend’s smugness was delicious. Sherlock glanced at the divers that surrounded them; he didn’t envy their over-priced Jaguars or Bentleys, because he was on a Harley with the man of his dreams.  
He was like a little boy again, except his love for all things nautical had changed into a passion for the sciences, and adventure on a grander scale. No longer was his back garden his playground, but now, with Victor, it felt like whole of London was his oyster. He had the freedom to plunge down alleys in the dead of night, and then to sit in the centre of London with people charging all alongside his boyfriend and his friends, smoking cigarettes and talking about nothing in particular.  
Suddenly, there was movement, and they were cruising along once more, weaving between the traffic – obviously Victor had grown bored of waiting for the jam to sort itself out. Sherlock could relate, but at the same time, there was a prickle of unsettledness in his stomach which made him squeeze his legs tighter around the bike and his arms around Victor.

“Dammit, darling, you’re crushing the life out of me!” Victor exclaimed, removing one hand from the handles to try and loosen Sherlock’s arm, although Sherlock resisted with a laugh. Victor twisted his head around, and through the glass eye shield, Sherlock could distinctly make out his soft brown eyes, his eyebrows vanishing up into the helmet in an expression of surprise.

The cab appeared out of nowhere.

A loud screech deafened Sherlock as he tumbled across the road as though he was a human bouncy ball – each time he scraped the floor, he could feel a layer of skin being rubbed away. The grey concrete of London was spinning around him, making his eyes water. He reached out with an arm in an instinctive move to stop himself from rolling even before he tumbled head first into oncoming rush-hour traffic. Thankfully, his agonising barrel roll was abruptly halted by an island.  
There was a brief moment of utter silence, and then objects began to shift above Sherlock, and there were loud noises attacking his senses from all angles. He tried to lift his arm, but gravity had grown far too strong for him to fight against. God. What had happened? Where had that cab even come from? The last distinct thing Sherlock felt was a searing, burning pain all up his back as someone placed a firm hand on his shoulder and shook it, demanding something of him.

-  
“Is he dead? Oh my God, tell me he isn’t dead!”  
“Mr Trevor, you’ve had a shock, please sit down.”  
“He can’t die, please!”  
“Mr Trevor!”  
-

There was a tight pressure on his right hand, the lights in the room were dim, and Sherlock could just about see a figure crouched over him.  
“Victor…?” He asked, voice cracking from not being used, how long had he been out cold? He heard furious whispering spilling from the figure, and the pop of knuckles as the grip on his hand grew so strong it felt as though his blood would stop flowing to his fingers. Straining, he could hear what was being said.  
“Please don’t die, babe.” Victor muttered, holding Sherlock’s hand to his lips and keeping it there, “Please don’t die. I’m sorry.”  
Feebly, the brunet tried to free his hand, as Victor was hurting it – and he wasn’t enjoying how his boyfriend was acting.

“Victor, wha’ are you talking about?” He asked thickly, licking his dry lips. He felt whoozy from the medication he must have been administered. He tried to lift his head, but it only made his mind swim nauseatingly, and he didn’t have the strength to hold the position for more than a few seconds. Victor gently rested his hand back onto the bed, letting go, although he rested his hand atop of Sherlock’s – and the brunet was thankful for the contact. Sherlock shut his eyes again and swallowed, his throat felt like sandpaper.  
“Oh my God,” Victor jumped upwards and grabbed something from the table beside Sherlock’s head, “Here.” He held something that felt like the lip of a plastic cup to the young man’s lips, “It’s just water, babe.” After pausing for a few moments, he tipped the cup so Sherlock could drink. After a few moments, he pulled the cup away, and Sherlock could tell from the way his boyfriend’s breath was quivering that his hands were shaking.

“Babe,” Victor began, “Your family, well you’re brother, he came – and he said that this is must be the last time we ever see each other. Ever.”  
Though it was hardly a surprise, Sherlock screwed up his face with misery, wishing he could lift an arm to shelter his face. God. His family really hated him and Victor.  
“I think the fact you nearly ended up plastered over the road had something to do with that.” Victor quipped bravely, though it achieved no reaction from Sherlock.  
A heavy, unbreakable silence followed, that lasted for hours. Victor could only watch as Sherlock closed up slowly, and was unable to say or do anything that would possibly prevent the process. In a way, the biker was glad, not that he had lost Sherlock, but that Sherlock was getting away from him – from everything. His thumb swashed back and forth like a gentle tide over the back of Sherlock’s hand, his eyes fixated on Sherlock’s young face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. To be honest, this isn't my best piece of work, but I've edited it and re-edited it to the best of my ability. I also felt that I had taken too long to get the next chapter up.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to let me know what you think!


End file.
